


Stay, Little Valentine

by lokiyan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokiyan/pseuds/lokiyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of short one-shots written for Game of Ship's Valentine's Event.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dream a Little Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cat/Ned, Jon/Sansa

Arya had been relegated to her room hours ago when she failed to behave herself as a lady should, but Sansa swayed to the music in her chair, lids drifting close though she willed with all her might to stay awake. There were few occasions for such elaborate celebrations in Winterfell, but of course, the birth of another lordling was just such an event. It had been a moon's turn since Rickon was born and there has hardly been a night quiet since, but Sansa supposed she should learn to adjust. Soon enough she will fill her own husband's house with children.

Beside her, she could tell that her brothers - brother and _half_ -brother - were half asleep as well. The moon was full and bright above them and though she knew her brothers were tired from the day's training, both insisted on retiring after her. They are, after all, older and therefore should have a later curfew. Though they hoped that their orderly sister would follow her normal bedtime, they should have known that Sansa would never miss such a spectacle for the sweetest dreams in the world. 

Before her, couples swirled in an array of greys and whites and blues and purples. Skirts flew high as the robust arms of hearty Northern men lifted their ladies in the air. What they lacked in grace, they certainly made up for in spirit. Less spirited, however, were her own parents, moving silently and slowly near a darkened corner of the room. 

Sansa was surprised to see them at all. Her father, gentle and kind as he was, was never one for dancing. What speed and strength he had on the battlefield translated into two left feet on the dance floor. Even Jon, poor, hopeless Jon, could dance better in their private, secret lessons than their father could and Jon knew nearly nothing about girls. 

Even now, Sansa watched them with a critical eye. The placement of his hands was atrocious, amplified by her mother's much smaller frame. He may as well have been a bear clawing the back her mother's head by the way he rested his hand in her hair while she pressed her cheek to his chest. His arm wrapped awkwardly around her waist, emphasizing the difference in broadness between his frame and hers. 

Yet, for all their flaws, Sansa felt a warmth budding from her heart and blooming into the apples of her cheeks. She remembered how her mother had told her that her father loved their shared, bright red hair, their slender frame and their Southron delicacy on days when Sansa felt like she didn't belong the way Arya and the rest of her siblings did. And suddenly her father's big, awkward hands and slow swaying envelops Sansa, too, in a deep hug drunk with love.

Swept up in the moment, Sansa looked up at her older brother and implored him to dance with her and when he refused, Jon shyly asked her to dance. With their father's same softness, Jon wrapped his arms around her and her eyes fluttered shut as she leaned against his chest. He smelled pleasantly of soap and leather, evidence of the wash her mother had commanded of the boys before the feast. 

At that moment, with her eyes closed, she could almost believe herself to be Jonquil, and Jon, her Florian.


	2. Tantalus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime/Sansa

There was little of the girl he met not too long ago in Winterfell. Her mother's bright copper hair was now near black and her figure had blossomed beneath the torn white muslin dress. With blood dripping from her delicate hands, she was strangely terrifying to Jaime, who thought himself impervious to deformities of body and of soul. Those who played the game knew the risks and when they were struck down, even by Jaime's own hand, he felt little remorse. 

But then there were people like Sansa Stark, who never had a chance. Much as he wanted to ignore and belittle heads filled with fantasy and elusive ideals of honor and duty as his siblings were wont to do, he never could because he understood. He was one of them, though he hated to admit it, and he thought perhaps he could be again. The damsel in distress, the renewed vows, the honorable companion... but the damsel in the songs never had that crazed look in her eyes as Sansa Stark did right now.

He and Brienne arrived at the Eyrie mere days ago to find the mysterious natural born daughter of the newly instated Lord Protector. Littlefinger must have been losing his edge - anyone with eyes could see this was Catelyn Stark's daughter. He could dress the girl up in rags and throw dirt on her face, but the set of her shoulders, her manner of speaking, the very ice in her veins were all characteristic to her Northern breeding. When she dressed his wound and re-bandaged an infection near his sword hand, there was a moment, a glimpse of the girl that was, with her gentle hands and petal blush. 

"Lady Sansa, please." The giant was gentle as could be, approaching the girl as though she were a frightened doe, a wolf pup lost in the heavy snows. "We can take you to your lady mother. Under our protection, no one will harm you any more."

Under our protection... Jaime clenched his jaw and swallowed a bitter laugh. Whom had he ever protected? Cersei had lain beneath him once too, but now was facing her own death in that rotting city. As soft and gentle as Sansa - Alayne - was, pliable in his arms, lips pink and puckered against his skin, he would only hurt, stab, cut, strangle, his hand an alien appendage the control of which was beyond him.

Her eyes were wide and unseeing, but she let out a maniacal laugh when she nudged her foot and the mockingbird flew out the infamous Moon Door, wings flapping lifelessly in the winds and snows. "See the man fly, Sweetrobin. I made the bad man fly."

Jaime clenched his fists - the sickly lordling had passed three moons before their arrival. "Sansa," he called out to her, the first time her name - her true name - spilled from his lips, foreign and unused. The white of her dress became one with the white of the snows outside and the fabric flew to join them, wrapping themselves dangerous around her legs. Long, smooth, legs that were cool to the touch. " _Alayne_."

She turned to him then. "We will bring you home. Our vows-"

"Words are but wind, ser, and you are far too late." She slid to the floor, her legs dangling beneath her. "Sansa Stark can never go home, and now Alayne Stone is lost too."

The last he saw was the slip of her dark hair trailing behind her, her skin and dress one with the white of the terrain below. In the sunlight, he thought he saw a glint of red, but even he recognized it was for his own comfort. The thought that perhaps Sansa Stark, in the end, was brought to light. 

His father died by his brother's hand. Cersei was doomed in King's Landing. Sansa Stark was ravaged by the puppet masters and returned to winter, broken and used. Jaime was certain, even now, stupidly certain, that honor was attainable for some. For him, though, it danced just passed his finger tips, dancing in the wind.


	3. 'Til Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn/Sansa/Ellaria

Sansa knew better than to trust anyone who stepped foot into King's Landing, but Oberyn Martell's energy was as infectious as his moniker implied. On the eve of the king's wedding, the weight of his attention bore heavily on her shoulders and she hid the roses in her cheeks with a curtain of red hair. Even as the king continued to make lewd comments on her appearance and her husband gave a meager effort to engage her in conversation, Sansa felt the burning inside her throat from his stare.

She nearly made it back to her chambers, the ones she kept separately from Tyrion, when he caught her by the elbow. His hand was splayed across her lower back to soften the impact of the stone wall even as the cold dug into her shoulders. "You poor thing," he murmured. 

"M-my lord-"

"Your shit of a brother left you here. Even your uncle, your philandering uncle laid down his life for his sister. I hate Lyanna Stark but I respected that. Do you know..." he trailed off and though his words were soft, his dark eyes reflected the flame of the torch above their heads. "If I could have traded for Elia to come home, I would have given them everything. The Lannisters, the Starks, the Targaryens... I could not care less as long as I could have my sister back."

Sansa forced a smile upon her trembling lips. "My lord loved his sister very much. I-it's touching." His hand fell heavy from her chin to her shoulder and she winced at the contact of the fresh bruises. At this distance, she was sure Oberyn noticed, but he gave no indication of this.

"Girls were meant to be loved. Those brutes, those Westerland bastards, may call us Dornishmen savage and uncouth, but we are nothing compared to the likes of the damned Mountain and the precious king."

"I am loyal to King Joffrey and you must speak ill of-" 

"Damn the bastard to hell!" His fingers tightened around her shoulder and the light gossamer fabric of her gown tore at his strength. At the light yelp, Oberyn jumped back, as though he was awoken from a spell. "I'm afraid I have lost my temper, my lady. Do forgive me." Sansa shook her head quickly, her motions small even as her lips trembled. Her fingers clutched at the shoulders of her gown and at the flash of bare skin, she saw in the darkness of his eyes the spark of flame once more. 

A moment later, he pulled his tunic from his body and placed it around her, a gesture she accepted gratefully. His chest was bronze in the firelight, broad with smattering of hair that darkened as it went South. She took his proffered arm as they walked toward his chamber, though as compelling as the man was, she felt she had little choice in the matter ("you must allow Ellaria to take a look at the damage I've caused and apologize profusely on my behalf or I shall never hear the end of it."). 

"I hear that there was a plan to wed you to Willas Tyrell." The name still stung in her heart - the name she had whispered into her pillow for nights like a prayer. She could only nod in response. "It is a shame. He's a good man and would have made a fine husband. Yes, you would have made a lovely pair."

It was strange to hear him speak so fondly of any of the Tyrell, especially when Margaery took every chance to make a jibe at the expense of the Martells. Because of the extraordinary character Sansa believed one must possess to forgive the man who maimed him, it hurt Sansa even more that Willas, too, slipped like sand from her fingertips.

She wanted to tell this man, this stranger, everything - about her brother Bran who lost the use of his legs and how he loved to climb; about Arya who used to throw food in her hair; about the way Rickon would calm his rages when she sang to him; and Robb, oh Robb whom she still could not find in her heart of hearts to resent, whom she shall love until the end of her life for the times the boy sat still and let his baby sister play with his curls. She wanted to tell him all of this but could not find the words. "I told Jon once that you should always compliment a girl's name, even if it were the most cacophonous sound in the world." 

"Jon?"

Sansa found it difficult to believe that a lord such as Oberyn Martell would care about her childish ramblings.

"My brother." _The only one I have left._

"And where is he?"

"The Wall. He's a man of the Night's Watch." _And gone, gone..._

Oberyn let out something between a snort and a cough. "You Northerners... choosing the comforts of a gods forsaken, desolate ice prison over your own family." Sansa wanted to tear at his hair, his skin, his eyes, for his critique. What did he know of honor? What did he know of...

But the door before them opened and in a whirlwind, Sansa was swept in sweet words, soft silks, perfumed scarves and rose wine. Ellaria was as irresistible as her paramour, even as Sansa was horrified at her bare feet sliding across the floor, the splay of her legs among the cushions and her hair completely undone in a fall of raven black. 

But horrified was not the word to describe the way her heart raced when Ellaria slid a hand up her inner thigh and Oberyn nudged his nose behind her ear to place a kiss on her neck. The heat radiating from their skin as she laid between them, the panting of her quickened breath and the way her hair stuck to her cheek and back was improper, lustful, bewildering, exhilarating - an almost painful sort of pleasure - but no, she was not horrified. And when Oberyn kissed her bare shoulder and Ellaria moved a strand of hair from her forehead before she drifted off to sleep, Sansa believed that perhaps she could trust these people. 

Just this once. Just tonight.


	4. The Last Page

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei/Jaime, implied Jaime/Sansa, Cersei/Sansa

They were pounding at the gates of the keep and Tommen, her sweet boy, laid rigid against her breast. So this is how it ends, Cersei thought idly as she stroke the golden head of hair with one hand and held him to her with the other. She placed a kiss on the cold forehead and rested her cheek there. She loved her children, not even her horrible dwarf brother could deny that, and she waited for him to burst through the door, carried by his mangled legs, to fulfill the prophecy and choke the life from her. 

Instead, it was her other sweet boy who swept in, his cloak grey adorning plain iron armor for the cursed house and the wretched girl to whom he pledged his loyalty, loyalty meant for her. He stood with his back against the door, taking deep breaths as his eyes focused on a far corner of the room. "Are you here to apprehend me or save me from your precious Northern queen?" He looked at her with a wry smile, the one that said he could never deny her anything.

"You have nearly the entire realm at your door, Cersei. I don't think even the gods could save you."

"So what is to be the reward for my head then? A place in her court? A taste of her cunt?" She saw his jaw work, the same strong jaw that they shared and felt a pang of jealousy the likes of which she had never experienced. She never had to worry about Jaime. Her Jaime. The jealousy that pushed her to hurt him as much as she could. "I don't blame you, brother. After all, I was there first and she was a precious, sweet little slice indeed." Cersei watched in satisfaction at the way he squeezed his eyes shut and the bob of his adam's apple. "She makes the most delicious little noises when you-"

"I have a gift for you." From his belt, he removed a folded parchment and strolled over to the table where she kept a full carafe of wine. She watched as he clumsily unfolded the parchment with one hand and poured the white powder into the carafe before pouring two full cups of red. He handed her a cup before taking the other one for himself. "A token of my affection."

He raised the glass and touched it to hers and together, they swallowed and sealed it with a kiss. "I told you, didn't I? I would never let the prophecy come true. If you are to die..."

She kissed him again. Her Jaime, her sweet, naive, stupid Jaime... The poison began to take its effect, the pull of the gentle sleep slowly forcing the fall of her lids. "We shall be together soon, brother." She said the words without believing them. No, neither life nor death would ever be so kind as to give her what she wanted. She knew enough from life to know that there were no heroes, and there were no songs.


	5. All the World is a Stage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon/Sansa, Petyr

The first thing Sansa Stark noticed about Aegon Targaryen was that he was exactly what she imagines his father to be. Fanciful, charming, and an absolute fool. From the moment he met her, a cleverly constructed meeting on Petyr's part of course, in the snows of the Eyrie, his fate was bound to her forever. She had accompanied Mya as his party's guide and with carefully orchestrated slips that landed her on his arm, the fluttering of her lashes as the snowflakes glistened in them, her robin blue cloak trimmed in white fur - she was wrapped up for him like a present, the most innocent, helpless animal - the man never stood a chance. 

She knew the plan. She knew the rules. Petyr had cast his bet on the young dragon and Sansa was his ticket into the inner circle at his court. She was to make the boy fall so madly in love with her that he could not live without her, even if his most trusted adviser would vehemently object once her true identity was revealed. It was rather brilliant, in truth. The stolen glances, the brush of the hand, the way the light highlighted the dull brown of her hair if she sat by a certain window - the entire seduction was subtly orchestrated. 

Let him believe that he is the one in control; the one with the power, Petyr had said. That was what he told his whores too, and his whorehouses reaped gold across the realm's otherwise barren lands.

Control. The thing that Sansa had been seeking since her world spun maddeningly from the moment she watched Joffrey take her father's head was within her reach and the man who taught her of it, well he was the final barrier. It was the want of control that manifested itself as a single glistening tear down her cheek the first time she let Aegon into her body and he cooed and kissed and brushed it away. The power she received by the act of relinquishing power, seeking protection just by the slightest shiver, was as addictive as drink and she wondered in the middle of the night, with his breath on her neck, if she would become as mad as Cersei one day.

When Littlefinger had calculated the assured victory, Aegon had bedded her six times and just as she had learned to mask her disgust with Joffrey, she could wear the starry eyed look like a mask before Aegon. It became even easier when she thought of regaining Winterfell for the children they would have - they would be Starks in blood, if not in name. 

"I have a confession, my love," she whispered against his neck where strands of his hair, now washed of its dye, stuck to his shoulder from the steam of the bath. Pieces of her own were damp against the nape of her neck, but it was mostly secured tightly with a pin atop her head. "I'm afraid... I'm afraid this will be the last time we are like this." She laid temple against his collarbone, the side of her face pressed to him just as she used to do when she craved her father - her real father's attention. And just as Ned Stark used to do, Aegon began stroking her hair. 

"Silly girl. Is it this nonsense about the station of your birth again?" He placed the gentlest kiss on her temple and for a moment, she believed that she could come to love him. His hand found her breast beneath the water and she bit her lower lip, all at once finding her control to be as slippery as their limbs. "I have already told you, it matters little to me. You will be the most beautiful queen in the history of Westeros. They will sing songs of us. You, Alayne, are my favorite song, my favorite story, my favorite book. Now." He put his hands on her hips and positioned her above him, the skin of her thighs wet and soft against his. "Shall we disprove your theory and do this again?"

She took him in sweetly, softly - Alayne was still new to the art of lovemaking after all - and reached her peak with one of his large hands spanned across her back and the other with a thumb pressing just above their junction. He followed soon after by her hand. She would never have a bastard. 

"Alayne, Alayne, Alayne." He loved to murmur her name against her hair after, as though he were branding this memory into his brain. He choked out a laugh, "You're like a kitten, you know that? With your claws and the little noises you make. Alayne, Alayne."

This, the moments after, was the dragon's soft underbelly and it was then that she must strike. Her shoulders began to shake softly and very delicately, though she knew he could hear in his hyper-aware state, sniffled. The tears came easily to someone like Sansa.

Within a moment he had wrapped her up in his arms once against, asking, begging her to tell him of her troubles. "I can't. You'll hate me."

"No, no, I could never hate you, sweetling. I was made to love you, truly." 

"I'm... I'm not who you think I am." She tore the pin from her hair and it came down in amber waves into the water, water that became a muddy brown. 

Aegon jumped out of the bath and stared wide eyed as a part of the girl he loved changed color before his eyes. "Wh-what is this trickery?"

The tears that came then were even easier, so easy that they almost felt real. She recounted her childhood in Winterfell, her brothers and sister and the betrayal of Littlefinger and how he forced her to do the things she did out of his desire for her mother. The places his lecherous hands and mouth had been...

Who wouldn't feel sorry for poor, helpless Sansa Stark, the girl with a gentle heart and sweet smile who was unwillingly tangled in treachery and sin of the evil around her?

He made love to her twice again that night, extolling her virtues with even the slightest crinkle of her forehead, praising her fire red hair. She wondered if perhaps this was not how Lyanna felt. Perhaps Rhaegar had been her way out, her way to seek control.

The next morning, Sansa told Aegon of the traditions of her homeland: he who passes the sentence must swing the sword, and he had the Lord Protector dragged to the throne of the Eyrie. The look on Petyr's face was a mix of pride and rage even as Sansa played meek and mild. As she stood by him and waited for Aegon to fetch his sword, she whispered soft and low, "you believed it, didn't you? That you were the one in control, with the power." 

When the head rolled to her feet, the moment before Aegon placed his cloak over it to spare her the grotesque display, Sansa looked Petyr in the eye. She won.


	6. The Secret Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mance/Sansa

It was all Ned Stark's fault, really, for being such a serious bastard. If he and the Night's Watch would just let his people be, Mance would not have to creep into Winterfell in the dead of night to teach him a lesson. 

The girl's hair shone in the moonlight. Kissed by fire, this one, just like her mother and with her mother's manners too. She was all dreamy eyes and smiles at the feast as he played his lute while her sister turned her lip at the festivities. The little she-wolf may have been Lyanna reborn, but Sansa Stark was Ned's little girl - the one who would break his heart if she wasn't near for him to protect.

Besides, trying to steal the other one may prove to be more trouble than she was worth.

Surely, though, should his own flesh and blood become one the free folk, Ned and even Benjen Stark would ease their pursuit. If this one were to continue resembling her mother as she does, she may grow to be a beautiful queen for him. 

He sat by her on her bed, watching the pale skin at the neck of her sleeping gown rise and fall with her shallow breaths. She is but a babe, with skin as white as snow, and her hair is soft to the touch. Everything seemed soft about her and Mance wondered if she would survive the harsh cold north of the Wall. The pads of his fingers touch her lips - soft as rose petals - and he could not resist leaning down and stealing a kiss.

The change in her was immediate and when he sat erect once more, her blue eyes were wide and bright as beacons. "Shh," he pressed a finger to his lips. "I won't hurt you." He gripped an arm with his free hand and missed her other hand sneaking beneath her pillow.

In an instant, the combination of shock and approval had him on his back with a knife to his throat. "I-I'll kill you." Her voice trembled as terribly as his hand and all he could do was chuckle even as he raised his hands in mock surrender.

"You'll do no such thing, girly." He covered her small hand with his and pinned her back on the bed, his face close enough that he could smell the rose oil in her hair. "But it was a valiant effort. Here I thought you were all your mother, but perhaps you're more a wolf after all."

She was still frozen in shock by the time he gathered himself and perched on her window, ready for a quick exit. "I expect you to scream for help, though it will be no use. Your father's men will never find me outside these walls. Fear not, my sweet lady, I will be back." For you.

Though he did not accomplish his goal and taken his hostage, Mance felt he had made an even more valuable discovery. The girl would be worthy to lead the freefolk one day by his side. He only needed to bide his time.


	7. Territorial Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery/Sansa/Cersei

On the eve of her wedding night, Sansa found no peace. Not only did sleep escape her like the damned, fickle thing it was, but fear held its icy grip on her throat as she contemplated the prospect of the goings on of a marriage bed. It was in this state, that the Queen Regent and the Queen to be found the anxious bride.

The lioness and the rose had little in common. In fact, Sansa often believed that their thinly veil contempt for the other would one day spill over and she would suffer for that as well. Their love for wine, however, became a line of commonality on which they toed their forced companionship. When they were the highest on a strong Arbor Gold or a flavored rose wine from Margaery's home, Sansa shrunk away quick as she could. Both women adapted this territorial look in their eyes that always froze her to the core and their lingering touches left simmering sensations on her skin.

Both were in a horrid state of undress, down to their corsets and stockings, one arm hooked to the other with free hands carrying a goblet of Dornish red for each of the ladies. Surely, they were most magnificently beautiful, but Sansa found that beautiful things were often the most deadly. "Little dove, wake up! You can sleep when you're wed and dead." 

Margaery climbed onto the bed behind her and wrapped her arms around her middle, her chin resting on Sansa's shoulder. "Don't scare our poor little Sansa with such harsh words, Your Grace. She is shaking like a leaf."

"Some wolf you are, then. Come, I want a preview of you in your gown." Sansa was at her feet before she could protest and in a whirl of fabrics and giggles, her wedding gown was wrapped haphazardly around her, the bodice undone. Cersei gripped the delicate fabric in one hand and took a swig of wine using the other. "A pretty little thing, would you not agree, Lady Tyrell?"

"Certainly, Your Grace, a lovelier sight I have never seen." Margaery tipped the cup toward Sansa's lip, staining them red as she swallowed carefully, trying her hardest not to spill a drop on her dress of pale, pale rose. "Relax, Sansa, we merely want to ease your worries for tomorrow. After all, they do say practice gives ease to even the most difficult of tasks."

"Thank you, Your Grace, Lady Margaery." Even in the dead of night, Sansa remembered her courtesy, her armor. 

"Stop behaving like a child, Sansa. You are a woman grown now." Cersei huffed impatiently as she tugged at the thick skirts of the gown. Sansa stood, naked as the day she was born, and reached quickly for her sleeping gown, which Margaery quickly kept out of her reach. "It is a shame that such beauty will be wasted on my wretched brother. Tell me, little dove, have you ever brought yourself pleasure?"

Sansa snuck a look at Margaery, the closest thing she had to a mother, a sister, who only nodded encouragingly. She shook her head, her face flush with embarrassment. "Well, that simply will not do." Sansa could feel the boning of Margaery's corset and the curve of her breasts against her back. A hand snuck around to her front and massaged Sansa's developing breast, slowly and gently until her own head fell to the shoulder behind her.

She was jolted awake by the nail that scratched her between her legs. "Oh, look what you have done." Sansa heard Margaery whine behind her as she hurriedly pulled her sleeping gown on and burrowed herself in her blankets. "You've gone and scared her off."

"My poor, innocent little sister." Cersei's laugh was wicked as she left the room and the shrillness of it nearly brought Sansa to tears.

Margaery, with the Queen Regent gone, shed all of her wily demeanor and glided across the room to her bed. "My sweet little wolf. I promise you, all will be well. Even if we are not destined to be sisters after all." The kiss on Sansa's forehead was soft and warm, as were the hands that tucked her blankets around her. For a moment, Sansa thought she could smell her mother's scent, feel the scratch of her mother's hair against her cheek.

Before she could leave, Sansa reached out a hand. "Would you stay with me? Until tomorrow anyway." The request was quiet and muffled, but Margaery acquiesced most prettily. Her smile was radiant as she rained chaste kisses across Sansa's face, but as lovely as she was, Sansa could not help but feel that there was a sense of victory in Margaery's smile as well. 

No one would ever love her for just who she was. Those are the stuff of songs.


End file.
